


Red Dead Redemption III

by holdupjustnow



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: American History, Native American Character(s), WW1, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 11:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdupjustnow/pseuds/holdupjustnow
Summary: Jack Marston has continued with the outlaw way of life, and it has finally caught up to him. With the promise of a clean slate, he decides to enlist in the US Army. World War 1 has reached the shores of America, and if it means he can be a free man at the end of it - well, he thinks that might be worth the fight."Jack takes his last look at Lincoln. He looks over the great, empty land, the hills to the north and the lakes to the south. He sees the smoke rising from the Quapaw reservation. And he sees, almost out of sight, a wild horse galloping."





	Red Dead Redemption III

**Author's Note:**

> I've just finished rdr2 and...well, everything that can be said about that game has been said. It was a very beautiful experience for me, as it's the first game I've played the whole way through in nearly ten years (the last console I had was a ps2!). 
> 
> Games have come so far. The story told in rdr2, and first game, is astounding in its depth. Of course, the mind can only wonder what became of Jack Marston...

‘Marston! You coming?’

He looks over his shoulder at Bragg, who has mounted his horse and is giving him a look. His mare whinnies, impatient beast. Jack looks back at the road sign. BLACKWATER. He shakes his head clear. Nothing but ghosts that way.

‘Yeah, sorry.’

Jack jostles his horse into action, Bragg matching pace beside him. They ride across the dry land, alone.

‘These people we turning over, you sure they’re gonna be easy?’

Jack smirks. ‘Oh yeah, real easy. Won’t see it comin’, I promise you that.’

‘Sometimes with these reservation folks, they got ways of pulling the wool over your head. ‘Spose they must be as dumb as people say they is, though.’

‘That they are.’

Jack looks over the man riding beside him. He looks real long and hard at the gold watch clipped to his breast pocket, and at the pearl hunting knife at his hip. The bare plains around them give way to thicker trees as they cross over into reservation territory. They pass a makeshift sign. Quapaw Reservation – RED BLOOD ONLY. The well beaten path into the reservation won’t lead them to any homesteads – they’re too smart for that.

‘C’mon, into the tree line so they don’t see us.’ Jack said.

The two ride off the path and into the trees, moving around so as to approach whoever was at the end of the road by surprise. The trees begin to thin out. A group of Native Americans lay in waiting; two women preparing food over a modest fire, and three men cleaning their guns. Jack’s revolver is drawn before they ccan hear the hooves hitting the ground.

The pair of outlaws dismount their horses. Jack looked over at Bragg – his own weapon is drawn and cocked. He gives him a nod. The gruff idiot nods back, and storms into the open.

‘Alrigh’, this is a robbery! Give us what you got and we won’t have to use these here weapons!’

The Natives jump in fear, scrambling to their possessions. The men go to lift their guns but Bragg is pointing his pistol right down their faces. Jack could have laughed. It is almost too easy. He lifts his revolver, pulls back the hammer and points it neatly against the back of Bragg’s big head.

‘That’s enough fun for one day. Git your gun on the ground, boy, and your things with it.’

Bragg doesn’t turn to face him, his eyes are still darting between the Natives, who are now smirking with what Jack recognises as great pleasure. The men quickly turn their guns on the now bumbling idiot before them.

‘Wh-what are you doin’? Marston!’

‘I told you this would be easy. Easy for me. Now git that gun on the ground, before I git your brains on these people’s land.’

Bragg chances a peek over his shoulder. ‘You workin’ with these – these injuns?’

‘I’m workin’ for me. Gun on the ground, and I want that watch too.’

Grumbling, Bragg obliges. He empties his pockets, turning out a few dollars, a flask, his half decent pistol and the gold watch. One of the Native women loots his horse while he does so.

‘There, I’m done.’

‘You think I’m some fool? The hunting knife.’

Bragg tosses it angrily to the ground. ‘You messin’ with the wrong man, Marston.’

Jack grabs him by the collar of his jacket and spins the great idiot around, gun still to his head. He gives him a shove towards his horse.

‘Next time you’re at a saloon keep your big mouth shut, and I wouldn’t know to rob you. Consider this a free etiquette lesson. Now you best get your lily ass out of my town, I’m sick of looking at yer!’

Bragg spits, mounts his horse and takes his leave. A large hand claps down on Jack’s shoulder. Broken River shakes his head in bemusement.

‘Where do you find these men, Jack?’

‘Why, _civilisation_ my friend. Where else?’

Broken River gives him a wry smile before letting him go. The rest of the tribespeople gather their things, sharing smiles with Jack. Soaring Moon comes up to him. Jack has to hold himself together – even the way she walks makes him weak.

‘I don’t understand you, Jack Marston. Why didn’t you rob that man where you found him?’

He holsters his revolver, and tries to look clever whilst doing it. ‘This was more fun.’

She’s wearing her usual garb, a mix of tradition Indian clothes but with a leather vest and sturdy work boots on. She hands him what she took from the fool’s horse – eighty dollars, cigarettes and a nudie photograph. He snorts.

‘Here, take half. Y’all did your part.’

‘I want the smokes.’

‘No chance.’

She nudges him playfully and he laughs. Jack hands her a cigarette and strikes a match against his glove. She places the smoke gently between her lips, and he lights it.

‘ _Miakoda_.’ Broken River calls out to them. ‘Let’s go.’

Soaring Moon gives him a coy smile. ‘I’ll ride with you?’

He looks down so that she might not see the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Always, girl.’

Jack doesn’t need to offer her a hand. Soaring Moon can more than handle herself on a horse. She holds his waist as they ride deeper into the reservation. He had gotten good with the Quapaw tribe by helping them fend off the law a few months back. They tried to evict the tribe on false grounds, and needed someone who had contacts in town to work the situation out. Jack Marston might not be the negotiating type, but a pistol whip can be very convincing.

They reach the real camp – a winding path of houses and campsites, alive with activity. The Quapaw people are the last Native stronghold in the West Elizabeth area. Their Chief doesn’t take easily to outsiders, but he seems fine with Jack being around.

He hitches Dakota with the other horses before catching up with Broken River, who is heading towards the kitchens.

‘Scuse me, Broken River, I gotta ask – is it alright if I hang round here a few days? I got into some trouble back in town, I need a few days to let things cool off.’

‘Sure, Jack. Big trouble, huh?’

‘Somethin’ like that.’

‘Trouble here too, _mukki_.’ Broken River nods towards Soaring Moon, who has joined the women on the other side of the camp.

‘Ain’t no trouble, what’re you talkin’ bout?’ Jack rubs the back of his neck. Broken River laughs, shaking his head.

‘You’re blind, _mukki._ But we all see you.’

‘Whatever you say, old man.’

He knows he’s just being difficult, because that night after all the chores and eating and story telling, it’s Soaring Moon’s bed that he ends up in.

 

*

  
He wakes up with a face full of Soaring Moon’s hair. He holds her closer for a moment, feels her body aligned with his, feels where she’s been roughened by life – her calloused hands, her strong arms, her hard stomach – a working woman, and the only one he has laid with.

She moves under his hands, stretching. ‘ _Wasicu_ , good morning.’

‘Mornin.’

‘Will you stay today?’

‘Yeah, I’ll stay.’

He spends the next few days working for the tribe. They don’t mind if he’s around, long as he does his part. He goes hunting with Broken River and Crouching Bear, he tends to the horses, he maintains their guns. The days come and go and he works by the sun. He eats when he’s hungry, sleeps when he’s tired and is with Soaring Moon in between. It’s the life his father had been chasing all those years, a lawless life where existing was all that needed doing and there was no judge or God to answer to.

And like all good things, Jack knows it can’t last.

*

He doesn’t say goodbye when it’s time to go. The Quapaw aren’t big on goodbyes, and neither is he. He finds Dakota and takes up her reins. He sees Soaring Moon as he walks Dakota out to the road. He tips his hat at her and she waves back. She knows how these things go. As far as he can ride with them, and as well as he can brandish a hunting knife – he’ll never be a member of the tribe.

He mounts his horse and rides back to the town. It’s not a far trip, but he passes what feels like a lot of folk. He can hear the great steam train, which explains things. The train only comes through this tumbleweed town once every few days. He picked Lincoln for that very reason to hold up after the mess he made down in Valentine. The bounty on his head is plenty big now, more than any working fellow could pay.

It’s starting to get to be a problem. He can’t go where he pleases anymore. Too many men recognise his face. He can go east, maybe hit Chicago and settle down. Something tells him he won’t be happy out there, with tall buildings and cars on the road. The outlaw way might be dead, but that doesn’t mean he has to be city folk. He’s a Marston – he’ll always belong in the Great Plains.

There’s a real flurry in town. Men in military garb are walking the streets, shouting some nonsense or the other. He has to dodge Dakota around them – no one seems to be minding him. There are posters all over the town – the saloon, the butcher’s stand, even the school, and they all read the same thing.

ENLIST

He hitches Dakota up at the saloon, some rusty joint called The Wild Boar. He goes inside the questionable establishment and up to the bar. He signals the bartender, Jimmy, who knows him well enough by now to pour him two fingers of whiskey.

‘Where you been, boy?’

‘I’ve been around.’ Jack says, taking up the glass. Jimmy must be the only black fella in this town, but they treat him nice enough. Jack has always liked his dry humour.

‘Mmm, sure. Well, you shook the law off you, that’s for sure.’

‘S’goin’ on out there anyway?’

Jimmy pops the top off a beer and hands it off to another patron. ‘There here for the war.’

‘Wars over. Been over for fifty years, unless I missed somethin’.’

The old man laughs. ‘Uh huh, you missed something alright. They here for the Great War. You ain’t heard what’s happening?’

Jack throws back the rest of his drink. It burns deliciously down his throat. ‘Yeah, I heard somethin’ bout that mess. That’s all the way over in Europe, what’s that got to do with us?’

‘Those pansies need our help.’ The man with the beer speaks up. He’s got a round belly, and a face reddened by the dust storm outside. ‘The _French_ can’t hold up.’

Jack laughs in near disbelief. ‘You tellin’ me, they tryin’ to get American men to go over there and win some war for the Europeans? What’s it got to do with us?’

‘S’all politics, boy. We got a hand in the pie like everyone else.’

‘How brainwashed you gotta be.’ Jack shakes his head and taps his glass. Jimmy pours him another.

‘Ain’t all bad,’ Jimmy says. ‘They sayin’ that if you go, you come back a free man.’

‘I’m already free.’

‘Naw, boy. They wipe your record clean. No bounty, no crimes over your head. A fresh start. _If_ you come back, that is.’

Jack smirks and picks up his whiskey. ‘I’d come back.’

That makes Jimmy shake his head. ‘If you so confident boy, you best get going. Theys been here for a couple days now, I think they moving on to Eagle Brook soon.’

The gold liquor settles heavy in his stomach. Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea. A couple months of doing what he does best – killing folk that need killing, as his Pa would sometimes say. He knows how to do that. And then coming back to the West and being able to do as he pleases, not just as a man without a record – as a war veteran. He sees the way people treat the veterans, positively heroes in these fool’s eyes.

‘Jimmy, I’ll see you round. I’m off to join the good fight.’

‘It was nice knowin’ you.’

Jack snorts and waves the old man way. He gathers his things and heads outside. The military recruiters are still hollering and stopping folks in their path. Jack spots one that looks harmless enough, a well built man that must be younger than he is.

‘Hey mister, I hear you’re looking for men.’

The man’s eyes light up. He sure looks happy Jack walked over. ‘Why, yes we are! Do you want to join the greatest military the world’s ever seen? Help your brothers overseas?’

He manages not to roll his eyes. ‘I want the bounty on my head gone. That something I can get?’

A bit of the excitement drains out of the youngster. ‘Oh. Well, yes, that too. That is, yes! You’ll come home a hero, and heroes can’t rightly be sought out by the law can they!’

‘I suppose they cannot. What do you need from me?’

‘Th-that’s all? Don’t you want to know more?’

Jack spits on the ground. ‘What’s there to know?’

The man hurriedly reaches for a stack on pamphlets from his satchel. He starts handing them over to Jack. ‘There’s training, then deployment, then your service, then hopefully a quick trip home!’

The pamphlets all ready a similar sort of nonsense. _Uncle Sam Needs You. Help Uncle Sam Win The War. I WANT YOU FOR THE U.S ARMY._

‘Sure, sounds fine to me.’

‘Okay, great! Well, yes, that’s good I suppose!’

‘Look mister, I know what this is gonna be and I’m here to do the job. No need to sell me on some made up glory.’

The man nods, maybe even a bit relieved. He juts his hand out, and Jack shakes it. ‘I’m Officer Holmes. We’re leaving Lincoln in a couple hours. Will you be okay to get your things together in time? And what was your name again?’

‘No problem. It’s Jack Marston.’

‘Okay, why don’t you meet me at the station at…,’ Office Holmes takes out a pocket watch. ‘Five o’clock. You’re a brave man, Jack! The army is glad to have you!’

Jack nods, like he would have any clue what time it is now. He’s never owned a watch in his life.

‘Will do, Officer.’

Officer Holmes goes bumbling off to another dimwit, and Jack walks himself back to Dakota. He’s had the mare for two years now, and she’s served him well. Fast when he needed to get away, quiet when he needed hiding. He pats her mane down and adjusts her reins.

‘Not gonna have much use for you now, am I girl?’

The horse shakes her head in response. _S’pose not_. He feels a sudden sadness blossom in his chest. His Pa always used to say – _Your horse is your best friend, your closest companion. You need them more than you need a wife – don’t tell your mother I said that._

Jack laughs, and feels a fool for the tears that rise in his eyes. ‘Hows about one more ride? C’mon.’

He lifts himself onto the horse like he’d done a thousand times before, and sprints out of the town of Lincoln. Jack had not woken up that morning thinking he was going to war. Now that he is, there’s at least one thing he’d like to do before he goes.

He rides Dakota hard to Blackwater. He might not know what time it is, but he knows five o’clock ain’t late. He doesn’t have long. He rides the whole way to Beecher’s Hope, that cursed place.

He didn’t sell the farm after Ma and Pa died. How could he? His mother and father’s sweat and blood and flesh are a part of this land. They’re buried in that dirt, along with Uncle, foolish man. He rides past every now and then to make sure no squatters turn up, but he’s long since given up on maintaining the ranch.

He doesn’t go into the property just yet. He rides past the ranch and into Blackwater. It takes him a good hour to find the man he’s looking for, but he finds him sure enough. Charles Smith is a hard man to miss.

Jack finds him exiting the Blackwater Bank, of all places. He quickly hitches his horse and runs over to the man he used to call Uncle.

‘Charles! Hey, Charles!’

The large man turns his head at the sound of his name. Once he spots Jack, his face lights up in a rare smile.

‘I don’t believe it – Jack Marston.’

The two men embrace, and Jack feels that silly feeling lurching through his stomach again. Why’s he getting so damn emotional? He’s coming back from whatever this war is. He always comes back.

‘Hey, Uncle. I heard you might be back around these parts. What happened to Canada?’

‘I’m still up there, my wife is keeping things going while I’m away. I’ve got a baby girl now too.’

‘Well that’s great. Great news.’

Charles, perceptive as always, purses his mouth in a frown. ‘Why did you come find me, kid? Something happen?’

‘Not exactly. C’mon, let’s get out the street.’

The two men walk to the nearest saloon and take a table. A waitress brings them over coffee.

‘What’s going on Jack? You’ve got me worried.’

‘Look, I’m joining the army.’

Charles near chokes on his coffee. ‘The army? Are you crazy? Why would you do a dumb thing like that?’

‘I’ve got a price on my head, Charles. And a name I can’t shake. That name helps me around these parts, but it’s starting to be that I can’t go nowhere. No bank is gonna give me a loan, no man wants to hire me. I don’t have money to keep the ranch going, or the know-how.’

‘Now you shut your mouth. Boy, you should have seen your father ten years ago. When he bought that plot of land it was nothing but dirt. He didn’t know a lick about farming but he figured it out, because that’s what a man does. He figures it out. I can’t think of anything that would make John sicker than his son going to fight another country’s damn war!’

Jack waves his hand angrily. ‘I ain’t got no choice! And Pa might have made it work, but I ain’t him. I can’t do the things he did.’

A soft, sad look goes over Charles face, and Jack knows he’s looking right through him in that moment. ‘You’re exactly like him. You’re his damn twin. Your father didn’t think he could do it either, until he did.’

‘I didn’t come here for you to talk me out of this. I’m going.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘I-I don’t want the ranch to get overrun by some gang or squatters or nothing. I ride past every couple weeks to check in, but I’m gonna be gone a while. Here.’ Jack reaches into his satchel and pulls out a stack of cash – all the money he’s ever had. ‘Can you look in on it for me?’

‘Jack.’ Charles sighs. ‘I’m not staying here. I had business to attend to, old business. I’m going back up north in two weeks.’

‘There ain’t no one else I trust to do this. You’re the only one left that knows what’s on that land. There must be someone you can find to do the job. I don’t know folks round here that well anymore.’

Charles taps his cup, thinking. He shakes his head, but lets out a laugh. ‘I know a few men I still trust. There’s a tribe not too far from here that owe me a favour. I’m sure this will cover them for a while.’  
‘Thank you, Uncle.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Now, today.’

Charles eyes go glassy, and Jack looks down so to hide his red cheeks. ‘They say this war is bad, Jack. Even worse than the Civil War.’

‘I’ll be back. Like you say, I’m John Marston’s son. I ain’t dying on no battle field. I’m dying here, on the Great Plains. And they’ll bury me on Beecher’s Hope.’

Charles hand reaches across the table suddenly and grabs his own. Jack looks down at it, and notices for the first time that it is wrinkled.

‘I remember watching you fishing. Arthur taught you how, remember that?’

‘Yeah, I do.’ It’s not a lie, but the memory of it is so faint he can barely grasp it. Arthur Morgan, the strongest looking man Jack had ever seen, his sturdy hand on his back, guiding him. The trickle of that river, breaking over the rocks…And Uncle Arthur’s unforgettable rasp – _Now cast the line out, just like that. You’re doin’ good, boy._

‘Was up to me, you’d never die. You kept us going back in those days.’

Jack can’t stand to sit there a moment longer. It looks like the sun is coming down anyhow. He holds Charles hand tighter, then lets go. ‘I have to go.’

‘Yeah, you do. I’ll look after the ranch.’

‘Thank you.’

Jack leaves that place, fast as he can. He takes Dakota’s reins and walks her to the town stables. He can hardly look in her eye as he’s handed the money.

‘You be a good girl now, and maybe one day I’ll buy you back.’

He ignores the voice in his head that says he might never come back.

*

JOHN MARSTON

LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER

“BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS”

1873-1911

Jack takes off his glove so that he can touch the gravestone with his bare skin. Slick wet stone, covered in moss – just a piece of rock with his father buried beneath it. He feels so much that his life has been defined by the man beneath this stone. If that’s good or bad, he’ll never know. It just is what it is.

He takes up the wire bristle brush he’d found in the barn, and starts scrubbing at the stone. He gets it as clean as he can, and does the same to his mother’s, and Uncle’s. There ain’t much to do after that. He takes a long look over the ranch. His childhood home. At least, when his parents got themselves together and built him a childhood home.

He goes inside. There’s no need to, but he does it anyway. He trails his hand along the wooden walls. All of his Ma’s furniture and dressings are still here, covered in heavy dust. The piano is there, but no doubt out of tune by now. Ma played real nice. Sometimes even Pa would join in singing with them, if he was in the right mood.

The door to his parent’s room creaks open. The bed sheets have been eaten away by moths, the windows long ago barred up. Ma couldn’t sleep in here after Pa died. She slept in Uncle’s old room, or on the settee. He opens up the wardrobe. His father’s coats, his ranch clothes, his gun belt...

The chest at the foot of their bed is the only thing he never really looked in as a boy. It’s locked, as it has always been. But he’s not a boy anymore. He hits the lock with the hilt of his pistol and it comes off easily.

He finds a few trinkets – nice pieces of jewellery, a few crumpled letters from people who’s names he does not know, and a stack of leather journals. He had seen his father write in them a handful of times, but he didn’t know he kept so many. There are pages filled with his Pa’s thoughts and feelings, all their years together writ over stiff paper.

_…It’s Jack’s 14th birthday. I got the boy new sights for his rifle. He’s getting to be a good shot these days. I’m the biggest fool there ever was, that I left when he was as babe. Missed his 1st birthday, shoulda been there. Even if it all worked out now, the thought of all that missed time still causes me pain…_

_…Hoping we get some good rain soon. The horses are struggling in this heat, and if we can’t get these sheep to town I’m gonna have to let Danny go. He’s a good hand, would be a shame to lose him…_

_…He mentioned seeing Dutch up north, but I’m getting too old now to be chasing ghosts. Besides, Abigail would do Dutch the favour and shoot me first. So would Arthur. Damn, Arthur’s been gone going on 10 years now. Need to go visit his grave, clean it up…_

_John, take Abigail and Jack and keep them safe_

That’s not his father’s handwriting, nor his words. His flicks further back through the pages of this journal, clearly the oldest of the bunch. There are drawings of wild animals and plants, houses and towns. Good drawings. And writing in between.

_…I feel like the luckiest man alive and I feel like a fool. That woman confuses me and plays me like a fiddle like no one else alive…_

_…It always seems to be more – more and more civilisation. I wanna get back in the open country, or the west, or what’s left of it, but even that ain’t the way I remember it…_

_…He’s a man who, not so long ago, I would have found weak and pathetic. Now I see as wise and thoughtful and sensible. I would love to help him, or at least stop Dutch pushing his son to do something real stupid…_

He turns to the first page of the journal. Scribbled in the top left hand corner are the initials A.M. Must be Uncle Arthur. Jack feels strange, reading the words of this man long dead. It feels more invasive than reading his own Pa’s writings. He snaps the journal shut and places it neatly back in the chest. He flips through a few more of his father’s books before he manages to find his most recent journal. It’s only been used a few pages, so he puts it in his satchel. Jack is supposed to be the writer in their family, anyhow. He’s sure there will be something interesting to write about in the war.

He doesn’t worry about locking up the chest. No one is bound to steal these.

 

*

  
Jack hitches a ride back to Lincoln, and spots Officer Holmes by the train. He’s managed to gather up a few other unlucky bastards. He walks up to the sorry lot.

‘Oh! Mr. Marston! You did come back.’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Yes, of course!’ Officer Holmes fiddles nervously with his hat. ‘Well. The train is leaving in fifteen minutes. Here’s your ticket. We’ve got a compartment at the back with Officer Ridley, and his new recruits.’

‘Alright then.’

Jack takes his last look at Lincoln. He looks over the great, empty land, the hills to the north and the lakes to the south. He sees the smoke rising from the Quapaw reservation. And he sees, almost out of sight, a wild horse galloping.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
